


Fuck of the Month

by abearinahamtilonsuit, MenagerieOfDarkness



Category: Neil Breen - Fandom, SpongeBob SquarePants (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bestiality, Canon Compliant, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fetish Clothing, Gay, Gay Sex, Implied Relationships, Lust, M/M, Maid Fetish, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Not Beta Read, Penis Size, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sorry Not Sorry, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, sex dungeon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abearinahamtilonsuit/pseuds/abearinahamtilonsuit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenagerieOfDarkness/pseuds/MenagerieOfDarkness
Summary: Spongebob and Squidward both share a secret bond. Will the employee of the month challenge reveal it?
Relationships: Neil Breen/Gary the Snail, SpongeBob SquarePants/Patrick Star, SpongeBob SquarePants/Squidward Tentacles, Spongebob SquarePants/Spatula
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Fuck of the Month

“Hey, Squidward. Hey, Squidward. Hey, Squidward. Hey, Squidward. Hey, Squidward.” Spongebob viciously pounded the words into Squidward’s ear-holes.

“All right, I'll bite. What is it, SpongeBob?” At the sound of the sponge’s voice, Squidward felt his suction cups light up in a fiery blaze of emotion.

Spongebob’s shockingly blue eyes met Squidward’s with an intensity only rivalled by John Cena. “Do you know what today is?”

“Annoy Squidward Day?” Squidward gently bit his lip, hoping that Spongebob remembered their anniversary.

Much to his joy, Spongebob whipped out a calendar with the 15th marked by a phallic Squidward head. Of course he’d remember. It was the apex of the emotional and sexual tension between them every year, leaving both of them shaking as they fell asleep, or failed to, in a sea of their own fluids -- not unlike in Life of Pi. “No, silly!” Spongebob felt a shock of heat race down to his yellow sausage as a tinge of disappointment filled Squidward’s eyes. He wouldn’t break yet, though -- Spongebob knew that the submissive octopus would need much more taming first. “Today is the beginning of the judging for Employee of the Month.”

Squidward’s brat instincts kicked in. “SpongeBob, don't you know that award's a scam?” he snapped, but he couldn’t deny how much he longed for it.

Each month, Mr. Krabs invited both of them, separately, to his office. The sounds cleared the restaurant of patrons, except, of course, for Patrick Star. Nobody minded the presence of the town’s most prominent voyeur. In fact, it added layers to the already perineum-shattering experience, like an onion of pure lust.

Once it was over, and the floors steamed with the scents of their bodies, Mr. Krabs would crown one of them Employee of the Month, and make them his pet after hours each day.

Squidward loved the tug of the leash, the pressure of the tail lodged in his rectum; the gentle warmth of the eared-headband on his bald, slimy head. Yet the award seemed more often to go to Spongebob -- after all, he had more holes to fill than Squidward ever could. Not to mention, the sponge could absorb a ridiculous amount of fluids. Squidward’s stomach could only hold so much, and sometimes he ended up chipmunking the rest. This was very arousing for Squidward, but it lost him points in Mr. Krabs’s book.

His mantra was, “Spitters are quitters and cheekers are cheaters.”

“What do you mean?” Of course Spongebob wouldnt get it, since he won almost every time, but Squidward still longed for the day when his body would be Mr. Krabs’s, when his huge, cerulean, bubble butt would be filled with Mr. Krabs’s butter sauce.

Squidward wanted to go into his feelings, but decided instead to play brat. It was his only escape these days, amidst the bullying from his cousins and his countless failures as a musician and an artist. “Mr. Krabs gives you that award, so you'll work harder for no extra money,” Squidward moaned. Suddenly he was overtaken by a feeling that was visible to everyone, because Squidward never constricted his massive octopus cock with clothing.

“That is not true, Squidward. He gives it to me because I work harder.” Spongebob licked his lips, making sure that each of his buck teeth were nice and wet and erect. “You could win it too if you tried…harder.”

“Oh, for what? To get my face on the Wall of Shame?” Squidward quipped. He knew Spongebob took pride in his work, more than any sea creature in Bikini Bottom, and that, despite his small, submissive-looking face, the sponge could be an erotic force to be reckened with. Squidward knew exactly what he was getting himself into -- a rough, merciless, brutal fuck from his midnight master. But if there was anyone Squidward wanted in HIS bikini bottoms -- it was this yellow man with a disproportionately large penis, pre-ribbed for his pleasure.

“Squidward, you've got it all wrong. Having pride in your work is nothing to be ashamed of, why it's the only thing that makes it all worthwhile.” Spongebob was the Picasso of taking cock; the Michaelango of giving (the muscled, succulent turtle, not the old fuck). If Squidward had half of Spongebob’s talents, he was sure he would have made a name for himself already.

Mr. Krabs intruded at that moment, emerging from his office with his well-oiled, porn-ready shell. “Thattaboy, SpongeBob!” he said, noticing the sponge’s hard-on. “This is going to be a tough one though! There's no clear cut winner!” Squidward’s flesh clarinet was hanging magnificently for all to see. It reached down to his knees, and the music it played was sweeter than what any wind instrument could produce.

Mr. Krabs leaned into Spongebob’s face so close that the musky cloud emerging from his lungs enveloped the sponge. “Watch out, SpongeBob. Squidward appears to be on the verge of a breakout.” Mr. Krabs had noticed that Squidwrd trimmed his octopus pubes in the most erotic fashion, showing off the Green Hill Zone-like curves of his balls. “There might be a new face on the wall this month.”

“Huh?” Spongebob queried, in genuine confusion, for he had formed what was the equivalent of a well-maintained bonsai tree -- the gold metal of cock, if he might say so himself. 

But Squidward could counter with what he called the “blue ribbon,” one of Spongebob’s favorite toys. “That's right, SpongeBob. I might sneak up on you,” he teased and gently fingered one of the sponge’s back holes, knowing full well that tonight he’d pay for his transgressions.

Squidward didn’t have to sit with his sexual frustration very long -- he didn’t even whip out his clarinet this time, let alone violate himself with it. He saved every inch of himself, every drop of cum, for his neighbor.

In a pineapple under teh sea, Spongebob was getting his toys ready for his date with sensual destiny. His maid costume almost put itself on at this point, and the jellyfish came of their own accord. The sponge felt his cock give another jolt as he slowly, methodically, took out his most prized possession -- his spatula.

He could see his reflection in Spat’s metallic gleam, but later, he wanted to only see a silhouette of Spat, draped in ooze.

A knock came at the door, and Spongebob could hear the ooze of freshly washed tentacles sticking to the wood. He couldn’t wait for them to stick to his wood.

When Spongebob opened the door, he was shocked to see Squidward in a long, brown trenchcoat. The octopus gave a small sideways grin before pushing his way in, making sure his voluptuous Krabby Patty-filled hips knocked into the sponge’s heavy, elephantine ballsack.

“You’re late,” Spongebob said in a tone that was never heard beyond the walls of his house, and rarely beyond the Suds-dungeon in his basement.

“I know,” Squidward gave a wink, slowly undoing the leather belt around the trenchcoat, exposing his freshly-waxed, perfectly shiny form. Spongebob couldn’t wait to suds up that fucker like a carwash.

But if tonight was a car wash, Squidward was the sassy driver who refused to go into neutral, and instead kept trying to drive right through it and break the whole thing. Spongebob was the surprisingly-muscled young worker who just wanted to keep his minimum-wage job so he could afford college. So you best believe he was going to smash that Karen into submission like the replay button on a Shrek is Love animatic.

He snatched the belt from Squidward’s suction cups, making a satisfying smacking sound. “Get downstairs,” he demanded.

“Make me,” Squidward dramatically bent over to slowly put on the thigh-high socks he brought with him, making sure that Spongebob had a front-row seat to the Chainsmokers concert that was his ass.

To Spongebob, it might as well have been Nickelback. He reached for his bubbles with a threateningly stern countenance -- one that said, “I am the president of Russia, and I am vaccinated against COVID-19.”

Squidward moaned in anticipation, knowing how deliciously soothing the bubble solution would be on his gaping hole. 

“This is what happens when you flash that bubble butt,” Spongebob crooned. He blew a bubble in the shape of an eggplant, letting the leafy top just barely graze Squidward’s perineum .

“Ohhh,” Squidward cried. “Put it in! Please! Please put it in.”

Spongebob teased him a while longer before admitting, “I do feel a bit generous today,” then shoving the entire eggplant bubble deep into Squidward’s asshole with no preparation. It burst into a moist, trickling mess that dripped onto Gary’s snail bed, but not before punishing his prostate with immense force like a Sith lord when he finds out that an underling made a minor and totally understandable mistake.

Outside, a pink presence touched his long, pencil-like cock with his stubby hands. He always loved the sounds of Squidward’s moans, even more than Sandy’s. But, he sometimes wished he didn’t have to lurk in the condom-like protection of the night. Because fuck protection.

Patrick was a voyeur, but more than that, he was a vicarious loser, lost in the sadness that the only thing to ever penetrate his chocolate starfish was the head of his own penis and, on one occasion, Squidward’s clarinet (not the fleshy one). Spongebob clearly thought Patrick didn’t get it, that he didn’t understand the subtle glances underneath each tease, each annoyance, each insult of Squidward. As if Patrick was an extra in this play, and not a main character. As if he didn’t belong on that stage. Still, as he watched his two neighbors get it on like feral cats, he couldn't help himself, his fingers a thrusting machine meant to soothe his aching cock.

And to think, Patrick mused, he, the one whose skin was the furthest shade from blue, would be the one to suffer from the heartbreak they called blue balls. It was not merely a scrotal disease: it was a terror of the mind and the heart, something that seethed toxic energy into his very soul as his envy grew over time.

And that envy…aroused him. He couldn’t resist it. He leaned into it, into his life of nothingness, his life of no touch, and felt jolts of pleasure assault his pink laffy taffy.

Inside, Spongebob’s yellow narwhal horn was threatening to harpoon Squidward’s Charybdis. Indeed, it looked like a whirlpool now, all lubed up with bubble juice and tensing from the octopus’s excited sphincter. But Spongebob was far from ready to “rectify” the situation, so to speak. Squidward hadn’t yet learned his lesson, like a student taking a class pass/fail because they didn’t want to put in the effort.

Spongebob reached for Spat. His knuckles cracked as they wrapped round the handle, like a sexy Judge Judy grabbing a gavel and ready to deal out a life sentence of anal pleasure.

“Please, Spongebob-kun. I can’t take much more waiting. My walls are about to ooze green slime, like yours did that night we worked together at the Krusty Krab and there was no one there to stop us…”

Spongebob remembered that night fondly. He had never before oozed that much green slime, but there was just something about Squidward’s immense fear of him that made him feel like the Wild Cats when they got their heads in the game, like John Oliver whenever he finds another reason to talk shit about America, like Harry Potter whenever he finds another one-dimensional girl of color to fall for to prove he’s not racist but like, everyone knows what’s really up.

But Spongebob wasn’t going to give in that easily. He readied Spat, who still wore specks of greasy Krabby Patty meat like herpes on a dick.

He swung through the air with such strength that Novak Djokovic would’ve swooned. Spat gave out a harsh, metallic moan as its cold body made contact with the alien lifeform that was Squidward’s bountiful cheeks. And unlike the moon landing, this contact was very real.

Squidward cried out like the childhood friend in an anime who never gets picked. He had to force himself to avoid their safeword -- “Wumbo” -- and instead tensed his mouth-cheeks like his butt-cheeks, sealed tight and opening only for cock.

“I can’t hear you.” Spongebob swung again, this time lodging Spat’s flag edge right in between Squidward’s cheeks like a credit card being swiped. And Squidward was the one paying.

“Nghhhhgnngh!!” A strangled moan ejaculated from Squidward’s lips like an opera singer belting out a falsetto. At the same time, Spat nutted a “ohhhh yeahhh” from within the chasm itself.

Spat quite enjoyed these nights. But as Spongebob took his arm back again, Spat felt once more the lust for the sponge, and his sadness that the sponge did not belong to him.

So much jealousy, so much pain. He saw it in the face of Spongebob’s pink friend.

Perhaps, Spat thought, in another world, he could’ve loved Patrick, and the two could’ve escaped this hell together and made sweet, sweet non-vegetarian love. But no. Just as Patrick was mesmerized by Spongebob, so was Spat.

If only things could’ve been different.

Spat wondered if he should’ve run away before, to join an emo band, rather than slather himself in gooch grease on weekday nights. But then Spongebob slammed the squid again, and Spat let himself become overwhelmed and enveloped by the ecstasy, like someone taking the drug, ecstasy.

“Oh, Spongebob,” the spatula murmured from the warm walls of Squidward's personal pocket, but Spongebob never heard him, never stroked his handle like a lumberjack chopping down a thick, meaty pine, but perhaps this was enough for now. 

Spongebob tossed aside Spat, who had made peace with collapsing by himself in the corner again this night. He whistled to the jellyfish.

“No,” Squidward whispered.

“Yes,” said Spongebob as the creatures latched themselves to the squid’s nipples and started pulsing like a bass speaker turned up to 11. The pulsations coursed violently through Squidward’s whole body, but most intensely through his Alaskan bull worm, which flailed like one of those balloon men at car dealerships.

“Are you ready?” Spongebob whispered.

“Yes. I’m feeling it now.” Squidward normally kept that line for Mr. Krabs, but the overwhelming sense of urgency and the heaviness of his yoga balls forced it out of him like the last squirt of soap from a soap dispenser.

Spongebob unleashed the Kraken like someone sliding a quarter into a vending machine, slow, hungry, ready for some corn chips. But this vending machine was dishing out only flamin’ hot cheetos.

He plunged fully inside, and Squidward let out a sound that made Patchy the Pirate wake with a fright in the middle of the night, cock fully erect. He didn’t know why. He glanced at Polly, thought “Nah,” and went back to sleep.

But as Spongebob and Squidward continued their passionate affair, someone in the deep blue sea had seen enough. And it wasn’t Patrick, who had again shoved himself into himself.

No.

It was none other than Alien Robot Jesus: Niell Breem himself.

The sexiest and smartest man in existence teleported into the pineapple like Neo entering the Matrix, or Neo entering Trinity, or Neo entering Agent Smith, or anyone really; because once he realized he could be everywhere at once, he got around -- in more ways than one.

“That’s not right,” Neil Breem raised his mechanical, computer-part-covered arms to the sky like the Jesus based off of him, and a beam of white, strip-club lighting engulfed the room. When the light vanished, Spongebob and Squidward were no more, but, as Neil Breem noticed with his expert vision better than any mortal, their cocks were still alive and well, squirming like the tail of a lizard after it detaches itself from the reptile’s body.

Then Neil Breem realized he had to cover up in case any cops were watching (F12 btw), so he let out a convincing, “I can’t believe you committed suicide. I can’t help you out of this one, Jim.”

Meanwhile, the flash of light startled Patrick so much he nutted deep within his own asshole. Spat felt a strange and unwieldy freedom at the death of his master, but more strange was his sudden and intense arousal.

But Niall Horan noticed not these things, but instead, a creature so wet and sloppy that its aura drew him to it -- a creature that came pre-wrapped in its ornate shell, and pre-lubed, too.

Gary let out a lustful “Meow,” one that shook the world like the first “Rawr XD” in a Grindr conversation.

Neil and Gary shoved their tongues in each other’s mouths, savoring their meaty flavors like two vultures fighting over a dead racoon. They rolled on the floor together, getting wrapped up in each other like a never-ending cum burrito from Taco Bell. Soon, Neil Breem felt his supreme, ungodly bussy grow wet and heavy in his Jesus robes.

And as Gary’s slimy tail entered him, Neil Breem whispered, “Live mas.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon and you can't disprove it.


End file.
